So, last night on the way home in the cab I lost my cell phone. I was on my way home from a benefit at The Pierre, which was crazy fun, but I think it was that last glass of champagne that led to my distracted state and lost phone. I called it when I realized it was gone and it rang but no one picked up. Everytime I called it after that it just went to voicemail. I actually filed a police report, which trust me, I felt really stupid doing. I mean ok, someone steals your car or breaks into your house, you file a police report, but a cell phone? Anyway, I'm supposed to keep calling the NYPD lost and found to see if someone turns it in.
I'm trying to recover my numbers (I didn't even know my parent's home phone number and had to look it up), so if anyone reads this (Bueller? Bueller?) email me your number at victoria_at_nyu_dot_edu and I will send you my work cell phone back.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Saturday, May 27, 2006
So Long, Bushwick
This is going to be my last weekend in Bushwick. I can't say I'm exactly sorry to go. On Monday the moving truck comes and all of my stuff will be put into storage for two weeks until I can move into my new apartment. I'm moving to a neighborhood that actually has stores and restaurants, banks and pharmacies. Delis that sell more than ossified cookies and rolling papers. When I first moved here, my dad asked me if I knew where to buy drugs and I did. But I still haven't found a clean supermarket that sells more than chips and rotten produce.
I won't miss the dirty dusty streets dotted with dog poo and chicken bones. I won't miss having to scrub my feet of ingrained dirt on days I wear flip flops. Least of all, I'll miss the old men yelling Mami at me and blowing exaggerated kisses. I was used to catcalls from living in Manhattan but all the learing leachery made me want to lock my self in my apartment and only emerge wearing a burka. I won't miss the strange smells that billow up to my window from my neighbors' kitchens; today I can't decide if it is a gas leak or rotten chicken liver. I won't miss the noise, either, from the hipsters on the roof or the distant roar of a PA system. Some nights I wonder if I hear cars backfiring or gun shots. Most nights I just turn the tv up and try not to think about it. Maybe I'll miss the crowing of the rooster at the slaughterhouse a few blocks down, but I won't miss the smell from all the chickens, geese and rabbits kept in small cages.
Now I have to run breathing in the exhaust from the BQE, in a couple of weeks I'll be close enough to Prospect Park to run there.
I never for one day forgot that I didn't belong here. Every walk to the corner, ever ascent up the stairs to the subway station; I felt as if I had two heads. The accusatory looks, the sidelong glances; I always felt as if I were an attraction at a zoo. The only thing that made it bearable was my daily escape into Manhattan.
I won't miss the dirty dusty streets dotted with dog poo and chicken bones. I won't miss having to scrub my feet of ingrained dirt on days I wear flip flops. Least of all, I'll miss the old men yelling Mami at me and blowing exaggerated kisses. I was used to catcalls from living in Manhattan but all the learing leachery made me want to lock my self in my apartment and only emerge wearing a burka. I won't miss the strange smells that billow up to my window from my neighbors' kitchens; today I can't decide if it is a gas leak or rotten chicken liver. I won't miss the noise, either, from the hipsters on the roof or the distant roar of a PA system. Some nights I wonder if I hear cars backfiring or gun shots. Most nights I just turn the tv up and try not to think about it. Maybe I'll miss the crowing of the rooster at the slaughterhouse a few blocks down, but I won't miss the smell from all the chickens, geese and rabbits kept in small cages.
Now I have to run breathing in the exhaust from the BQE, in a couple of weeks I'll be close enough to Prospect Park to run there.
I never for one day forgot that I didn't belong here. Every walk to the corner, ever ascent up the stairs to the subway station; I felt as if I had two heads. The accusatory looks, the sidelong glances; I always felt as if I were an attraction at a zoo. The only thing that made it bearable was my daily escape into Manhattan.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
The Circus
I swear this happened to me. The circumstances are vague, but the details are clear. One night, while I was living in Italy, I came upon a band of Gypsies. The Piazza de la Repubblica, normally sedate and heavily touristed, had turned into a swirl of sound and light. I saw the sparks from the fire, a block off, illuminating the silhouettes of the crowd. Closer, the beat of the drums seemed to pulse from the cobblestones. I was spellbound and walked toward the flame as if compelled. In the center was a barefoot girl, spinning to the music as if oblivious. She didn't look like the gypsy girls I saw at the bus stop with their torn clothes and bitter faces. In the red pulsing light she seemed superhuman, divorced from reality, gravity, convention. My heart beat to the rhythm, and the seconds seemed to slow, suspended in the thick, smoky air.
Could I live like that? Yesterday a distant memory; tomorrow an insubstantial dream. Could I loosen the chains that bound me to the earth? Would I live by my own dreams and find my own way?
I felt as I was turning head over heals. A breeze picked up and the light flickered. The dark wrapped itself closer around us and I turned to go home.
Could I live like that? Yesterday a distant memory; tomorrow an insubstantial dream. Could I loosen the chains that bound me to the earth? Would I live by my own dreams and find my own way?
I felt as I was turning head over heals. A breeze picked up and the light flickered. The dark wrapped itself closer around us and I turned to go home.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Usage
I'm no grammar saint. I make mistakes. I leave out apostrophes, misuse commas, but I proofread and ask myself if it is, indeed, too much. I smirk when I walk past a deli advertising "grocery's" or a store renting "video's." Today I saw a "goes" spelled "go's." Freshman year, I took a class during which we had to pass our rough drafts around and critique each other's work. I was too hung up on the sentence structure and punctuation to spend much time on the content. Forget "Writing the Essay," we needed "Writing the Sentence."
So today I was particularly disappointed by the essays Nicolas Kristoff chose to be the finalists for his "Come Document Devistation in Africa!" contest. As my sarcasm may suggest, I don't think much of this trip. I think it's akin to Oprah showing victims of car accidents who have had their faces burned off or allowing housewives to feel "the horror of the Holocaust" through the eyes of someone who experienced it. It's just pornography for the soul-dead. The winner even claims to want to "break people's hearts thoroughly."
I've often enjoyed and agreed with Kristof's articles, but this entire contest seems to be mis-guided. When announcing the contest, he alleged that American students, even those who study abroad, are sheltered and ignorant (my words.) Something about doing more drinking than studying, I believe. He encouraged all college students to take a gap year and travel the world and investigate other countries and cultures, supposedly to right perceived wrongs. A virtuous goal, no doubt, but the essays that were chosen as finalists hardly reflect it.
Instead they vacillate between a litany of complaints concerning childhoods marred by poverty and divorce and self-satisfied boasts of prior accomplishments including trespassing, reading newspapers and pissing oneself. I come away believing that mass media has so warped the general conscience of this country that we think any ripple or hiccup in our lives is a sign of insurmontable tragedy, and that our penchant for self-promotion is insatiable. I have experienced death and divorce and poverty, but I would never disrespect my mother so thoroughly as to degrade her sacrificies to further myself. Even if I were to, I would use proper syntax.
So today I was particularly disappointed by the essays Nicolas Kristoff chose to be the finalists for his "Come Document Devistation in Africa!" contest. As my sarcasm may suggest, I don't think much of this trip. I think it's akin to Oprah showing victims of car accidents who have had their faces burned off or allowing housewives to feel "the horror of the Holocaust" through the eyes of someone who experienced it. It's just pornography for the soul-dead. The winner even claims to want to "break people's hearts thoroughly."
I've often enjoyed and agreed with Kristof's articles, but this entire contest seems to be mis-guided. When announcing the contest, he alleged that American students, even those who study abroad, are sheltered and ignorant (my words.) Something about doing more drinking than studying, I believe. He encouraged all college students to take a gap year and travel the world and investigate other countries and cultures, supposedly to right perceived wrongs. A virtuous goal, no doubt, but the essays that were chosen as finalists hardly reflect it.
Instead they vacillate between a litany of complaints concerning childhoods marred by poverty and divorce and self-satisfied boasts of prior accomplishments including trespassing, reading newspapers and pissing oneself. I come away believing that mass media has so warped the general conscience of this country that we think any ripple or hiccup in our lives is a sign of insurmontable tragedy, and that our penchant for self-promotion is insatiable. I have experienced death and divorce and poverty, but I would never disrespect my mother so thoroughly as to degrade her sacrificies to further myself. Even if I were to, I would use proper syntax.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Seeworthy
This weekend has been unusually eventful.
Friday I went to a benefit for the AIDS walk, which I really enjoyed. It was a little bit like vaudeville with music and comedy and readings. I always thought vaudeville must have been really kitschy and schmaltzy, but this was quite sophisticated. Everyone who performed was really talented, too . And to cap it off, I won something in the raffle. It's a box set of music from the '90s called Whatever and includes Social Distortion's Ball and Chain, Spacehog's In the Meantime, and Pavement's Cut Your Hair. I love the '90s.
Saturday I went to to look at the apartment I'm moving into. Looks like I won't be homeless after all. I can't believe that I'm going to be living in a nice apartment in a nice neighborhood after my experience living with a leaking roof in the ghetto. I mean, the other night I was going to sleep and realized that I sleep in the same room as my refrigerator, which is the same room that I do my work in, which is the same room that I watch tv in. But in 3 weeks I will have different rooms to do all those things in! I think it's a little sad though that I'm excited that my new bathroom will have a toilet paper holder and a towel rack. The only downside is that it is in a coop building, and I need to get them all kinds of documentation that is proving rather difficult to gather.
I think my new job and my new apartment mean that on the Brooklyn food chain, I have moved from despised hipster to loathed yuppie. I'm not sure if its an upgrade or not, but I did feel that my new status meant I should travel to the mecca, Fairway, which only opened this week. Conveniently located in Red Hook, it is innaccessible by subway, poorly serviced by bus routes and almost impossible to be found by the average New York cabbie. Luckily half of Park Slope was there with their Jeeps and Subarus. I on the other hand had to hike from the Smith-9th Street stop of the G train.
Red Hook was not what I had expected. I'm beginning to think that Bushwick is indeed the shittiest shit hole in Brooklyn. I had heard all about Red Hooks reputation, but it's a picturesque, if picaresque, neighborhood. Brick tenements huddIe together in the shadow of crumbling factories and warehouses while closer to the waterfront the rusted vestiges of Brooklyn's seafaring past are still visible. I passed art galleries and antique stores and yes, even strollers. Just as I saw the distant form of Fairway on Van Brunt Street, I began to smell the sea. The one form of transportation that is easily accessibly from Fairway is the Water Taxi.
I hadn't been planning on buying much, but when I walked up to the cheese case and saw they had Brie de Meaux, I couldn't resist. The employees had obviously been vigourously coached to be friendly and helpful, but I still had a pretty genuine conversation with the cheese guy about the supierority of brie de meaux. (Whole Foods and many cheese shops refuse to carry it, because it is made from raw milk.) After the cheese, I quickly went into what I can only describe as the foodie trance, that weird stupor that people go into when they walk into gourmet supermarkets and lose the ability to walk. Thankfully, the aisles are wide and the store is big enough that customers can walk around like extras from Dawn of the Dead without creating chaos. There were still some kinks to be worked out, though. The credit card machines were on the fritz and didn't accept the first card I tried. I also would have appreciated if some proper bagging instruction had accompanied the customer service training. My container of watermelon opened all over the bag it was placed in and the cheese was crushed by the apples. My mother always rearranges the groceries after they're packed, and I thought she was crazy, but today it made sense. They were only single bagged and one of the bags split on my way home.
The trek home involved a bus, a subway, and a 20 minute walk. All told it took two hours to get back home. If I have another free Sunday afternoon, I might go back for certain things like cheese and fresh fish that I can't get from Fresh Direct, but I won't be making that hike for stuff like apples and pasta.
Friday I went to a benefit for the AIDS walk, which I really enjoyed. It was a little bit like vaudeville with music and comedy and readings. I always thought vaudeville must have been really kitschy and schmaltzy, but this was quite sophisticated. Everyone who performed was really talented, too . And to cap it off, I won something in the raffle. It's a box set of music from the '90s called Whatever and includes Social Distortion's Ball and Chain, Spacehog's In the Meantime, and Pavement's Cut Your Hair. I love the '90s.
Saturday I went to to look at the apartment I'm moving into. Looks like I won't be homeless after all. I can't believe that I'm going to be living in a nice apartment in a nice neighborhood after my experience living with a leaking roof in the ghetto. I mean, the other night I was going to sleep and realized that I sleep in the same room as my refrigerator, which is the same room that I do my work in, which is the same room that I watch tv in. But in 3 weeks I will have different rooms to do all those things in! I think it's a little sad though that I'm excited that my new bathroom will have a toilet paper holder and a towel rack. The only downside is that it is in a coop building, and I need to get them all kinds of documentation that is proving rather difficult to gather.
I think my new job and my new apartment mean that on the Brooklyn food chain, I have moved from despised hipster to loathed yuppie. I'm not sure if its an upgrade or not, but I did feel that my new status meant I should travel to the mecca, Fairway, which only opened this week. Conveniently located in Red Hook, it is innaccessible by subway, poorly serviced by bus routes and almost impossible to be found by the average New York cabbie. Luckily half of Park Slope was there with their Jeeps and Subarus. I on the other hand had to hike from the Smith-9th Street stop of the G train.
Red Hook was not what I had expected. I'm beginning to think that Bushwick is indeed the shittiest shit hole in Brooklyn. I had heard all about Red Hooks reputation, but it's a picturesque, if picaresque, neighborhood. Brick tenements huddIe together in the shadow of crumbling factories and warehouses while closer to the waterfront the rusted vestiges of Brooklyn's seafaring past are still visible. I passed art galleries and antique stores and yes, even strollers. Just as I saw the distant form of Fairway on Van Brunt Street, I began to smell the sea. The one form of transportation that is easily accessibly from Fairway is the Water Taxi.
I hadn't been planning on buying much, but when I walked up to the cheese case and saw they had Brie de Meaux, I couldn't resist. The employees had obviously been vigourously coached to be friendly and helpful, but I still had a pretty genuine conversation with the cheese guy about the supierority of brie de meaux. (Whole Foods and many cheese shops refuse to carry it, because it is made from raw milk.) After the cheese, I quickly went into what I can only describe as the foodie trance, that weird stupor that people go into when they walk into gourmet supermarkets and lose the ability to walk. Thankfully, the aisles are wide and the store is big enough that customers can walk around like extras from Dawn of the Dead without creating chaos. There were still some kinks to be worked out, though. The credit card machines were on the fritz and didn't accept the first card I tried. I also would have appreciated if some proper bagging instruction had accompanied the customer service training. My container of watermelon opened all over the bag it was placed in and the cheese was crushed by the apples. My mother always rearranges the groceries after they're packed, and I thought she was crazy, but today it made sense. They were only single bagged and one of the bags split on my way home.
The trek home involved a bus, a subway, and a 20 minute walk. All told it took two hours to get back home. If I have another free Sunday afternoon, I might go back for certain things like cheese and fresh fish that I can't get from Fresh Direct, but I won't be making that hike for stuff like apples and pasta.
Friday, May 12, 2006
It's Coming With Me When I Go
So because of poor foresight and even poorer planning, I have to get out of my apartment by the end of the month. My apartment has been rented to a girl who came to look at the place about a week ago. A few other people had been by before, and they had been underwhelmed. But this girl was seriously enthusiastic. "This is what I"m talking bout!" she said when she came throught the door. I had 3 weeks of laundry jammed in a corner, and the tub and toilet had these weird pink stains they get when I don't clean them frequently, but she didn't seem to mind. (BTW, I looked it up and the pink residue is caused by airborne bacteria that thrives in moist environments. Yum.) "This kitchen is way better!" She'd already been to the vacant apartment next door, which except for the paint job, is identical to mine. I can only assume she liked my crusty cutting board and dusty dishes in the drying rack. Her reaction to the bathroom: "You use Kiehl's!? Me, too!"
I had this exchange with someone else who came to look:
"Is this your air-conditioner?"
"Yeah, it's mine."
"Does it work? Does it keep it cool?"
"Yeah, it does a good job."
Why do you care? I'm taking it with me when I go! I remember being dragged to see what felt like hundreds of houses with my parents in second grade. Upon getting in the car again, I would make comments like "I didn't like their couch" or "They had pretty curtains in the kitchen." And my parents had to explain to me that their stuff was leaving with them, and I had to imagine how our stuff would look in the house. Apparently the people who came to see my apartment didn't get the same pearls of wisdom from their parents. I know that my stuff looks cute with the inexplicable orange paint job, but I'm taking it with me when I go! The pink bacteria is all yours, though.
In return I've been looking for apartments in Clinton Hill, which is near where I'll be working. Seeing as how I have to be at work at seven, I figure I should be close by. I had looked at a couple of lofts in the area, but moving from a loft in a sketchy neighborhood to a loft in a semi-sketchy neighborhood at a 50% mark-up seemed like a bad idea. Today I went to look at a studio in a brownstone on Clinton Ave. Clinton Avenue really must be one of the most beautiful streets in New York. 19th Century limestone mansions and brownstones hide behind lush leafy trees. I had Essex Green on my iPod and the people I passed nodded and smiled at me. "I must live here," I thought. I got to the buidling, which echoed the gabled townhouses of Amsterdam. "I want it!" I thought. I was asked to come back in twenty minutes. When I got back I was greeted by the super who spoke only semi-comprehensible English. I was able to make out that it was the basement apartment, and that the current tenant had changed the locks and we had no way of getting in. I peered down the dank stairs to the darkened front door. "Come back later." Maybe not.
When I got back home, I began looking at listings online and called about another apartment in a brownstone nearby. The landlord sounded sleazy.
"What do you do for a living?"
"I'm a school registrar."
"Oh so you teach."
"Well, no I work in the office. I do the admin stuff."
"I'm partial to school teachers."
Yeesh. I'm supposed to look at it tomorrow, but I'm not sure if I really want to. Will my desperation to stay housed win out over my reluctance to not fall into the clutches of a dirty old man?
I had this exchange with someone else who came to look:
"Is this your air-conditioner?"
"Yeah, it's mine."
"Does it work? Does it keep it cool?"
"Yeah, it does a good job."
Why do you care? I'm taking it with me when I go! I remember being dragged to see what felt like hundreds of houses with my parents in second grade. Upon getting in the car again, I would make comments like "I didn't like their couch" or "They had pretty curtains in the kitchen." And my parents had to explain to me that their stuff was leaving with them, and I had to imagine how our stuff would look in the house. Apparently the people who came to see my apartment didn't get the same pearls of wisdom from their parents. I know that my stuff looks cute with the inexplicable orange paint job, but I'm taking it with me when I go! The pink bacteria is all yours, though.
In return I've been looking for apartments in Clinton Hill, which is near where I'll be working. Seeing as how I have to be at work at seven, I figure I should be close by. I had looked at a couple of lofts in the area, but moving from a loft in a sketchy neighborhood to a loft in a semi-sketchy neighborhood at a 50% mark-up seemed like a bad idea. Today I went to look at a studio in a brownstone on Clinton Ave. Clinton Avenue really must be one of the most beautiful streets in New York. 19th Century limestone mansions and brownstones hide behind lush leafy trees. I had Essex Green on my iPod and the people I passed nodded and smiled at me. "I must live here," I thought. I got to the buidling, which echoed the gabled townhouses of Amsterdam. "I want it!" I thought. I was asked to come back in twenty minutes. When I got back I was greeted by the super who spoke only semi-comprehensible English. I was able to make out that it was the basement apartment, and that the current tenant had changed the locks and we had no way of getting in. I peered down the dank stairs to the darkened front door. "Come back later." Maybe not.
When I got back home, I began looking at listings online and called about another apartment in a brownstone nearby. The landlord sounded sleazy.
"What do you do for a living?"
"I'm a school registrar."
"Oh so you teach."
"Well, no I work in the office. I do the admin stuff."
"I'm partial to school teachers."
Yeesh. I'm supposed to look at it tomorrow, but I'm not sure if I really want to. Will my desperation to stay housed win out over my reluctance to not fall into the clutches of a dirty old man?
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Fin
Yesterday, my last paper for college was due. It was for my internship seminar, and was title "Community at a Crossroads: Adaptive Reuse and Redevelopment on the Lower East Side." I'm now officially done.
Afterwards I went to pick up my new computer and my tickets for graduation. I all just feels so final. I mean, I'm pretty happy with where I am in life and how college turned out. I think regret and guilt are pretty useless emotions so I'm not even going to entertain any fantasies about what college could have been like had I or it been different. So all in all, I had a pretty great time at NYU. It just all feels so fast and incomplete.
I never really thought about what I wanted my adult life to be like outside of ballerina/astronaut/lawyer day dreams, and now that I'm finally here I don't know what direction I want to go in. Especially since I feel like I already missed a fork in the road that I didn't even know was there.
Anyway in cheerier cooler news, my graduation present is an iPod nano and a MacBook Pro. They are both seriously cool. Although it is a total pain getting my music/ pictures from my old PC to the new compy. If only I could upload from my old Pod... I would take a picture, but I'm not sure if my old camera works with this computer and I'm too exhausted to find out.
Afterwards I went to pick up my new computer and my tickets for graduation. I all just feels so final. I mean, I'm pretty happy with where I am in life and how college turned out. I think regret and guilt are pretty useless emotions so I'm not even going to entertain any fantasies about what college could have been like had I or it been different. So all in all, I had a pretty great time at NYU. It just all feels so fast and incomplete.
I never really thought about what I wanted my adult life to be like outside of ballerina/astronaut/lawyer day dreams, and now that I'm finally here I don't know what direction I want to go in. Especially since I feel like I already missed a fork in the road that I didn't even know was there.
Anyway in cheerier cooler news, my graduation present is an iPod nano and a MacBook Pro. They are both seriously cool. Although it is a total pain getting my music/ pictures from my old PC to the new compy. If only I could upload from my old Pod... I would take a picture, but I'm not sure if my old camera works with this computer and I'm too exhausted to find out.
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